Chapter Text
Azula dreamt rarely, and the dreams that occurred were rarely favourable. However, sometimes she dreamt of flashes of colour: crimson dresses flowing around the palace, pomegranate-stained lace, hyacinth-stained cotton, the sparkle of rubies, the gleam of emeralds and the sight of her face in polished gold. Other times, her dreams fixated on the twists and curls of sleek, black hair (much like her own), flowers and pearls pinned into those twists and curls, and the scent of persimmon oil, lavender, and jasmine that tended to suffocate the capital.
These dreams were few and far between, and she hated them. She preferred the nightmares, preferred the itching feeling that would form beneath her skin and the cries that would escape her throat. It was easier to process than the heavy feeling in her heart and the nausea in her gut.
She slept a lot; the physicians at the asylum would encourage her to sleep and encourage passivity. They wanted her manageable and unable to attack. It's not like she could; she was bound and restrained constantly, whether she was in a straightjacket or subdued by rope. Her wrists were constantly covered in rope burns; her milky flesh turned red and raw and was not given the chance to heal. 'A strategic move,' she decided.
The first year of her imprisonment, Azula fought, scratched and shot spurts of blue, hot flame to try to be freed; it was fruitless. Consequently, leaving the physician's assistants with charred flesh and scorched clothes, and her confined and monitored night and day. A memorable example was 6 months into her stay, a guard, Lee or Li? Azula could never remember.
He was garish and stubborn, always parading about in his decorative armour, gloating about his escapades and rendezvous. It drove her mad. In retrospect, he was an easy target and was a redirection for her anger, but a target was a target. It was late one night when he was stationed to watch her; he was bragging about something while adjusting her constraints. He paused his ministrations to accentuate his point, and that's when she slipped her wrists through the rope, bringing her hands together, causing a blue hot flame to appear and pour towards the guard. His skin burnt, and his decorative armour melted, merging into his flesh. Leaving red tissue with patches of silver.
Zuko wasn't pleased when he found out about Azula's outbursts; in fact, he would scold her about it, much like Ursa did when Azula was a child. He was unintentionally condescending. Speaking to her like she was a porcelain doll, ready to crack and shatter with one wrong move. It enraged her, made her feel weak and disgusted, and filled her gut with an uncomfortable feeling which she later recognised as shame. Shame that she felt this weakness so explicitly. Shame that Ozai wasn't there to punish her, to help her atone for her sins.
Zuko's visits started a year after her sentence; he couldn't look her in the eye for a while. Azula didn't entertain his mushy words either. Looking past him like he didn't exist or spitting insults at him until one pierced the soft, fleshy underbelly of his heart. Whenever Zuko stormed out on her, a pang of satisfaction would pool in her abdomen. She knew it was pathetic to get so much pleasure out of hissing petty, infantile insults, but she was unable to physically harm him (partially because of the restraints and the diet she was kept on, which left her on the edge of malnutrition), so she settled on emotional jabs, and it worked most of the time.
Zuko had been visiting more recently; Azula had thought it weird but chalked it up to him feeling more sentimental than he usually was. In total, Azula had been stuck in the asylum for around three years; time was weird there. It felt as if the days went slow, but the years had passed by quicker than she expected. The only thing that grounded her, which she would never admit to his face, was the way Zuko changed. The way he turned from the scrawny, unprepared sixteen-year-old to this tall, self-assured nineteen-year-old. His hair had hit the small of his back; it was dark, almost the colour of ink, with a small neat topknot placed on the apex of his head and a golden crown pinned in it. His face had lost the majority of its boyish charm; it was still youthful but not in the way it used to be. He had obvious dark circles that showed his position was affecting him, which happened to age him dramatically. Azula found it amusing before the realisation that she probably looked worse hit her; she hadn't looked in the mirror since Sozin's Comet and the delusions of her mother's tormenting. She asked Zuko once what she looked like, a lapse of judgement; he darted around the question, but he finally relented.
"Zula… Well, your hair has grown, a little choppy but not awful." He murmured, rubbing the back of his neck.
Azula groaned, "I'm not made out of sugar, dear brother."
Zuko pinched the bridge of his nose, but before he could speak, a physician reminded him that his visiting time was up; he rushed his goodbyes and left before she could argue. She scoffed but ultimately laid the matter to rest.
The increased frequency of his visits was slightly, only ever so slightly, appreciated; his constant chattering helped Azula reorganise her thoughts and helped her to gauge time. It also gave her someone to talk to who wasn't an entitled guard or a stone-faced physician. If she focused on the tone of his voice and not what he was actually saying. She could just imagine a time where the world was simpler, where Azula's only concern was feeding the turtle ducks, giggling with Zuko under his bed, and with her legs tangled with Ty Lee's and Mai's sick on sugar.
"Azula!" Zuko called, bringing Azula out of her thoughts.
"What? There is no need to raise your voice at me," she mumbled.
"Did you hear anything I said?" Zuko frowned, eyebrows furrowing.
"Well, I make a point to focus on anything but you," she poked.
Zuko huffed something unintelligible. "I have discussed things regarding your stay here, in the institution with Aang,"
"Ahhhhh, I see you're discussing my fate with the Avatar, ZuZu, and here I thought you were going to leave me in this madhouse forever." Azula teased, yet Zuko can sense the truth behind the statement. Azula thought Zuko would keep her here forever in a state of purgatory, too scared to make a move.
"Azula, I would like you to move back home." Zuko trailed off.
Azula stared up at him; he had that hopeful, pathetic look in his eye. Every part of her wanted to crush that spark of faith he held, but she knew she'd never get back to who she was stuck in an institution, kept on a short string.
"I assume I'd still be watched and monitored," Azula sighed.
"Of course, you would, Zula." He rolled his eyes. "But not forever; you could gain my trust back, the countries' trust back."
Azula knew what he was doing, so she decided to indulge her older brother. "Please don't curse me with some insolent guard, or I will find a way to permanently retire them." She smiled sweetly.
"Noted," Zuko sulked.
"You should be back home by the end of the week." He carried on, much happier.
Azula brushed him off, instead mentally listing all the things she would do with her restraints being both metaphorically and physically lessened. She thinks she will start with a nice hot bath, with soaps and oils and anything she desires. She felt slightly embarrassed to admit how much she missed the simple pleasures of royal life.